


If I Run

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Sports, Athletes, Dick Pics, Hand Jobs, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Public Sex, Running, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean Winchester is a red-blooded American male. He lifts all the things. He aims for functional strength. He counts his macros and makes fun of curlbros. He is not a member of the Tarahumara tribe and he will not read <i>Born to Run</i>, no matter how many times Sam tells him to, because <i>Starting Strength</i> is the only book Dean will ever fucking need."</p><p>***</p><p>Wherein a friendly competition with the mysterious ThursdaysAngel turns into a sexy selfie-trading spree that motivates Dean Winchester to train for his first marathon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lollyb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lollyb/gifts).



> For the prompt: Cas and Dean are friends/enemies who both have an exercise app which pits you against others in your area. When you complete a challenge you post a selfie of yourself having done it. This creates a rivalry between the two of them but they are also majorly turned on by the sweaty pics. Dirty, sweaty sex ensues.
> 
> Title from the song ["If I Run"](http://youtu.be/2y4PibJUQdc) by Semisonic.
> 
> [Fitocracy](http://www.fitocracy.com) is a totally real thing that completely changed my life.
> 
> No, I've never run a marathon but I've read dozens of books on how because I'm a weirdo nerd who likes learning about things I'll never actually do. (I am, however, a powerlifter.) 
> 
> Books referred to are _Born to Run_ by Christopher McDougall and _Starting Strength_ by Mark Rippetoe.
> 
> PS Apparently you have to qualify for the Boston Marathon. I skipped over that point because I suck at research. I'm sorry. So... this is an AU where you don't have to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

The Boston _fucking_ Marathon.

How did Sam talk him into this.

Dean is a powerlifter. He lifts heavy things, and he sets them back down. He's _good_ at it.

 _Starting Strength_ is his bible and Mark Rippetoe is his personal god. Asking Dean to run a marathon is just as bad as asking him to do yoga or pilates or some shit. It's like telling Monet to become a goddamn geologist.

Cardio is for people who read _Born to Run_ and argue about Vibrams versus Nike Free versus whatever the fuck _huararches_ are that Sam will not _shut up about_.

Dean Winchester is a red-blooded American male. He lifts all the things. He aims for functional strength. He counts his macros and makes fun of curlbros. He is _not_ a member of the Tarahumara tribe and he _will not_ read _Born to Run_ , no matter how many times Sam tells him to, because _Starting Strength_ is the only book Dean will ever fucking need.

And he _will not_ run the Boston Marathon, no matter how much he misses Sammy and is worried this is the only way he'll be able to see his brother; that it's the only thing they’d have in common these days. He went off to Harvard and got a girlfriend-now-fiancé, and he's so busy with school that he doesn't even return Dean's calls anymore.

It's dumb. It's really, really dumb.

Two days later, Dean signs up for the goddamn Boston Marathon.

He has six months to go from high intensity interval training-- the only cardio he ever does-- to long-distance running.

Twenty-six miles.

("Twenty-six-point- _two_ miles," Sam had corrected while Dean hit Submit on the online form for the marathon.)

That's only a dozen trips to the liquor store and back. He can do that. That's not too bad.

Until he tries it one Saturday morning, and he can't even finish a 5k without feeling like he's going to hurl.

After his first run, which leaves him with shin splints that make him think his legs are _literally splitting in half_ , he crashes onto his couch, leaking every ounce of fluid in his body through his pores, feeling like he's going to fucking _die_ , and calls Sam.

"I quit," he says instead of hello.

Sam laughs. "Dude, you just signed up yesterday. How many miles did you get in today? Five?"

Dean laughs in return, high-pitched and a little bit hysterical. "I could barely get in three. I think my shins are fucking dissolving, man."

"Get yourself some Veebs."

"The fuck are _Veebs?_ " Dean shouldn't have asked. He doesn't want the lecture that always ensues upon asking Sam about footwear.

"Vibram FiveFingers. Studies show that barefoot--"

"I am not wearing goddamn foot gloves," Dean interrupts, because he's heard this all before and he would rather shove hot spoons in his eyes than hear it again.

"Suit yourself, Dean, but a marathon is a much bigger feat than a 5k. It takes a lot of work. A lot more work than being able to curl a small child for the sake of your shapely biceps." Dean could _hear_ the dumb smirk on his brother's dumb face.

"Shut up, I only curl for an auxiliary exercise."

"Right, and it's not _at all_ because you like flexing in the mirror and taking selfies."

"Fuck you, I'm hanging up now. I'll see you in six months, asshat."

"But I'm not gonna be seeing you, because I'll be miles ahead."

Dean hangs up the phone and lets his head drop back to the pillow.

He's gonna need some extra motivation.

***

God bless Charlie Bradbury, who's just the kind of nerd who will only exercise when it's turned into a video game.

When Dean tells her about his marathoning woes, she shows him Fitocracy and tells him that it helped her do more in the gym than just the elliptical.

"More importantly, it convinced me to go to the gym in the first place," she adds.

So Dean downloads the app and logs arm day-- because his legs might still be sore from his run two days ago-- and is pleased to find that he shoots straight to level three.

Immediate gratification. Just Dean's style.

Dean is even more surprised to find that, after his first workout, a dozen people add him as friends and leave him props, then write encouraging comments for him like, _"Welcome to Fito! Great workout!"_

He adds Charlie as a friend, who's already at level fifteen, and props her most recent workouts, surprised she's been doing barbell squats and deadlifts.

Dean thinks he's going to like Fito.

***

Three months later, Fitocracy and marathon training have become Dean's entire fucking life. He checks the app about fifty times a day, he has a thousand friends, and he's already up to level twenty. He's in a group for fellow marathon trainers, another group specifically for Boston Marathon trainers, a running group, a lifting group, and a selfie Saturday group, because despite what Sam says, it feels damn good when people prop his selfies and compliment his arms.

Dean is doing his Saturday morning long run-- his first attempt at a half-marathon-- when he refreshes his Fito feed and finds he has a new follower, _ThursdaysAngel_ , whom he's seen post in the Boston Marathon group a few times, and has also propped his selfies in the Selfie Saturday group.

Dean almost trips over a rock, and reminds himself he _really_ needs to stop playing on his phone while he's running, but his Fito peeps need constant Twitter updates about how his run is going or they'll _die_.

Not really, but it helps to keep Dean motivated when he gets bored as hell spending hours upon hours running. Everyone always talks about "runner's high" but Dean has never experienced it.

Running is fucking tedious.

He adds ThursdaysAngel back, and five minutes later, gets a notification that he's been challenged to a duel for the most miles run between now and the Boston Marathon.

Dean smiles and accepts the challenge, then sends ThursdaysAngel a PM:

_Impala79: Idk who you are but youre on._

_ThursdaysAngel: ;)_

Succinct, Dean thinks. He goes to Thursday's feed, scrolls through his workouts, and almost trips _again_ when he sees the kind of miles this dude puts in. Dean managed to work up to thirteen miles once per week, but that's what this guy does _per day_.

 _Shit_.

All Dean can do is pound the pavement harder.

***

One month later, ThursdaysAngel is ahead by only three miles, and Dean almost kills himself trying to catch up. On another Saturday run, this time seventeen miles, he gets a notification for another PM.

_ThursdaysAngel: There's no way a curlbro is logging that kind of mileage._

_Impala79: I'm not a curlbro!_

_ThursdaysAngel: Your selfies say otherwise. Never a pic below the waist. I bet you don't even lift._

_Impala79: I lift! And I don't see you posting any selfies. Stalker._

_ThursdaysAngel: What can I say? I enjoy looking at the gratuitous bathroom selfies of fitness-minded individuals. I am a man of simple pleasures. Still, I want proof you're logging these miles._

_Impala79: How?_

_ThursdaysAngel: Text me pics when you're done with your run. 323-790-4967_

Dean spends the remainder of his run trying to figure out where the 323 area code is and what angle he would look best at.

The moment he finishes his seventeen miles, he gulps down some water and then pours the rest over his head. The sun is setting and the lighting is perfect for an epic-level selfie, so he takes his phone from the holster on his shoulder and turns the camera so that it's facing him. Then he takes a picture of himself Blue Steeling and flipping the bird at ThursdaysAngel.

He sends it to the number he was given, and walks inside his house to eat everything he can fit in his face while icing his poor kneecaps.

Half an hour later, ThursdaysAngel replies:

_C: That doesn't look like 17 miles worth of sweat._

_D: You're right, it looks like 50._

_C: Fine. I buy it._

_D: Where's yours?_

_C: Today was cross training. I only did pilates._

Dean rolls his eyes.

_D: Pilates? Really?_

_C: It's a great core workout, Impala._

_D: My name is Dean, by the way. Yours?_

_C: Castiel._

_D: Nice to meet you, Cas. You owe me a post-run selfie tomorrow. You've got 20 miles to get caught up to me._

_C: Won't be a problem. Planning on doing a marathon tomorrow._

"Fuck," Dean says aloud, almost dropping the frozen chicken breast in his hand. He chooses not to text back, both out of irritation and needing all of his mental faculties to force his body to make a decent meal.

The next day, he gets a picture text from Cas. He’s in a park, ear buds in his ears, and squinting at the camera like he doesn't know how to take a picture of himself.

Considering that he doesn't have any posted on Fito, he might not.

It takes Dean all of five seconds worth of mind-numbing _whoa_ to pull together enough coherence to think, _dude's hot as hell._

He's all tan skin and pink lips and, _holy mother of god,_ those eyes.

Marathon training just got interesting.

***

The next selfie Dean sends is taken in front of his mirror after his weekday seven mile run, because he's _that_ much of a cliché. He opts to take off his shirt and pull his jogging shorts low on his hips. His face is in the picture, smirking, but most of what's in the frame is his torso.

He sends it, and waits for Cas to reply.

_C: Acceptable._

Okay, so the guy doesn't flirt.

Then Cas follows with his own pic, where he's looking up at the camera with his dumbass selfie face, in the park but shirtless, and Dean can see all the way down his tan, well-muscled stomach to his--

No _way_.

Dean zooms in on the picture.

Cas is wearing shorts, but there's a definite... bulge there. A tent, even.

 _Fuck_ that's hot. But Dean plays it cool.

_D: Also acceptable._

_C: Need proof of acceptance._

Dean blinks, and reads the text again. Did Cas just _ask for a dick pic?_

_D: You don't want to play that game with me._

_C: Why? Is your dick as short as your mileage?_

Before Dean hesitates long enough to chicken out, he pulls down his shorts and grips himself, stroking a couple times until he's nice and hard, then points his camera down and snaps a picture.

He sends it to Cas and gets in the shower, touching himself to the thought of an unbearably hot, total stranger getting off to the dick pic he just sent.

His orgasm is slow and intense and makes his knees weak, damaged as they already are.

When he gets out of the shower, he checks his texts again.

_C: I... stand corrected._

_D: Damn straight._

_C: “Straight” is not a word often affiliated with me._

Dean grins and replies:

_D: Same. ;) So where’s mine?_

_C: You’ll get one when you hit 20 miles._

_D: Not fair._

_C: Your profile says you joined Fito for motivation. This is me motivating you._

_D: Tease._

_C: That's a word often affiliated with me._

Dean has never been more motivated to do anything in his _life_.

***

Against the advice of everything he’s read on the topic, Dean speeds ahead on his running schedule so that he hits twenty miles in two weeks instead of three.

He has a month and a half to tack on six more miles.

If that month involves dick pics of the sexy runner he’s been texting virtually nonstop for the past few weeks, then he would be willing run from Lawrence, Kansas to the Boston Marathon itself.

Of course, Cas hasn’t made it easy on him. After every run, he sends Dean pics, teasing him with hipbones that look like they were hand-sculpted by God Himself, neatly trimmed happy trails, and perfectly chiseled abs coated in cum. Dean gets pictures of plush, pink lips and a dazzling smile, bright blue eyes and sweaty, constant sex hair. Every time he gets one, even the innocent ones, he finds himself jacking off to them, scrolling through his growing collection with one hand holding his phone and the other pumping his dick furiously.

He sends Cas pictures of his aftermath, pictures of him sucking the jizz off his fingers with his eyes closed; his dick, hard and glistening with pre-cum; his face contorted in pleasure while he comes thinking about Cas.

Between the pictures, they have normal conversations. Cas, who does, in fact, live in Boston, is a couple hours ahead of Dean, so he sends Dean good morning texts, usually involving inspirational quotes  to help Dean get his lazy ass out of bed so he can run before work. Dean finds out that Cas is a pediatrician-- of course the fucker is a goddamn _doctor_ \-- but he’s still somehow interested in Dean’s simple-as-pie life of fixing cars, lifting weights, and bingeing nightly on Netflix and ESPN.

Dean teaches Cas about lifting, and Cas teaches Dean about the more spiritual aspects of running. Unlike when Sam lectures him about it, Dean drinks Cas’ words in like gospel. He finds himself trying to meditate during his runs like Cas instructed, focus on his core and his breathing instead of letting his mind wander.

He finally reaches his runner’s high midway through his first twenty-mile run, and the last ten miles feel like they only take a second. When his app tells him that his run is over, he’s confused, because he definitely didn’t run twenty miles, but he checks his map and it says that he did. He stops and takes a pull from his water bottle, then realizes that he feels really, _really_ good. Like winning-a-lifting-meet good. Like just-getting-laid good. Like _happy_ good.

He takes his camera out and snaps a picture of himself, stupidly giddy and sweaty and probably looking a little bit crazed, but Cas will understand, because he’s _Cas_ and Dean has learned he’s just intuitive like that.

_D: 20 miles down. Where’s my reward?_

Dean walks into his house, gripping his phone tight as he fixes himself a protein shake absently, dick already half-hard at the thought of whatever Cas is going to send him, and his body is buzzing with a kind of energy he’s never felt.

His phone beeps and his tub of protein powder slips from his grip and clatters to the ground, thankfully still closed, but he doesn’t pick it up, opting instead to look at the text Cas sent, and-- _holy shit._

It’s the full deal: Cas is gazing at the camera, looking fucking _wrecked_ , full lip bit between his teeth as his other hand is loosely wrapped around his cock, huge and hard and wet and _fuck,_ Dean almost comes just from looking at it. His throat is dry and he has no fucking words for how much he wants Cas in his kitchen right now so he can bend Dean over the counter and fuck him into oblivion.

_D: jfc, Cas._

_C: Just wait for your reward after the race._

_Oh god_ , Dean thinks. Cas is going to be the death of him. They'd never talked about actually _meeting_ at the race. The thought had crossed Dean's mind, but he wasn't sure how far this competition would go. Cas is blowing him out of the water in mileage, but it's become so much bigger than the duel. Dean finds himself actually _looking forward_ to waking up every day, knowing Cas has some silly motivational speech waiting for him on his phone. Their flirty conversations have developed this undertone of unwavering support. Dean tells Cas about his day, Cas tells Dean about his. They text each other stories and funny things they find on the internet. They've learned about each other's lives.

And now Dean might actually get to _meet_ this man with whom he's grown to have an uncannily close friendship. Or whatever it is.

It suddenly hits Dean that he has a legitimate, butterflies-in-his-stomach, giddy-school-girl _crush_ on this pediatrician long-distance runner who seems to know all of Dean's buttons and press them mercilessly.

Dean can't fucking _wait_ for this race.

***

Dean drives to Boston a week before the race, because really, fuck flying. He doesn't care that it's a twenty-hour drive. He never takes a vacation from the shop, so Bobby gave him three weeks off, and he takes his time crossing the country, nothing but his Impala and the open road ahead of him, with a tiny spark of apprehension at maybe meeting Cas, maybe fucking Cas, and _oh fuck_ , there's that whole marathon business too.

Dean worked his way up to twenty-three miles, but couldn't force himself to do the extra 5k. He felt like he was going to die. He couldn't reach his Zen space because he had too many nerves about his trip, about Cas, about everything.

It didn't help that Cas stopped texting so much. He still got the daily motivation, but Cas claimed he'd been swamped at work. Dean understood, but the pictures stopped too, and with it, a bit of Dean's drive to keep pressing his miles, increasing his speed, focusing on his breathing.

When he gets to Boston, Sam greets him with a big, dimpled smile and a bear hug. He introduces Dean to Jess and shows him the guest bedroom where he'll be sleeping.

A couple days before the race, Dean can't sleep, so he wakes up at five in the morning. Knowing he's in Cas' timezone, he googles motivational quotes, and sends one to Cas:

_D: "It always seems impossible until it's done." -Nelson Mandela. Hope you have a good day._

Dean puts on his running gear and steps outside into the darkness of the early Spring morning, turning left outside of Sam's apartment like his running app indicates.

He watches the sunrise as he runs, sky turning from black, to a hazy grey, to pinks and oranges, then finally to blue, the air getting sweeter and warmer with every passing moment.

Dean gets to a park, filled with trees blooming, and feels his phone buzz on his arm with a text.

_C: Good morning to you too._

He smiles down at his phone and goes to reply, when he spots movement in his peripheral vision, and glances up momentarily to see a runner about to pass by his right. Then he looks back down at his phone, blinks, and slams on the brakes, nearly falling over in an attempt to stop himself.

Messy hair, blue eyes, pink lips, permanent five o'clock shadow.

Dean turns around to find the man who just passed him, who stops too.

"Cas?" Dean asks, hesitant.

Cas turns around, wide-eyed. "Dean?"

Oh _jesus fuck,_ that _voice_.

Dean is pretty sure he's been punched in the gut. Or maybe running finally did kill him and this is his heaven, staring at the kindhearted doctor who has single-handedly been keeping him going on this ridiculous endeavor, who is staring back at him with his head slightly tilted and his cheeks flushed either from running or blushing or _god,_ why is Dean just standing there like an idiot?

He walks up to Cas, extends a hand, and tries to smile, but he can't take the look of awe off of his face at this bizarre, happenstance meeting.

Cas blinks, and looks down at his hand, which might be noticeably trembling, and takes it in his own.

Cas' skin is warm and his hands are soft but steady. They shake for a moment, and then Cas is pulling Dean into his arms and kissing him like there's no tomorrow, mouth hot and frantic, pressing them closer together. It takes Dean's mind a moment to catch up, but when he does, he threads his fingers in Cas' hair and licks into his mouth. They're both breathless and breaking apart to get some air every few seconds, because who fucking knows what mile Dean is on. Suddenly running doesn't matter, the race doesn't matter, all that matters is that he gets as close to Cas as physically possible as soon as possible.

Cas breaks away for a moment to look into Dean's eyes, then flicks his gaze to his lips and back up. "I'm sorry I didn't offer to meet up. I was--"

Dean doesn't really care about the end of that sentence, so he crushes their mouths together again, pulling Cas by the hips into him, slotting their dicks together until Cas breaks away to gasp.

When Dean looks at him again, his eyes are darkened and his mouth is swollen red and spit slicked. Cas takes his hand, and guides him off the trail and into the nearby woods where it's still dark.

He shoves Dean against a tree and the rough bark presses at his back, but he doesn't even care because Cas' tongue is in his mouth again and his dick is hard and heavy against Dean's thigh, rutting against it with abandon. Teeth catch Dean's bottom lip and he groans, quiet and desperate, running his hands up the back of Cas' t-shirt. They're both drenched in sweat but Cas still somehow smells amazing, musky and hot, and when Dean trails kisses down his throat, his skin is salty sweet and warm and delicious, the expanse of tan skin and rippling muscles finally at his disposal.

With quick, curious hands, Cas dips his fingers into the waistline of Dean's shorts, teases him at his hipbones, and Dean whimpers because _goddamn_ the only thing he wants in the entire world is for Cas to touch him, somehow, some way, those fingers which have texted him filthy things, supportive things, funny things over these past few months wrapped around his dick.

Finally, Cas runs up the length of Dean's cock with his fingers, a light touch that makes Dean gasp and bunch the back of Cas' shirt in his hands. He's breathing heavy against Cas' mouth while Cas smiles against his lips, chuckling low and dirty as he wraps his fingers around Dean's cock, loose grip sweaty, catching the pre-cum flowing out of him and slicking his dick with it. It's filthy and wrong and anyone could run by and catch them like this, but Dean wants it so much that he thinks he might come already, from barely being touched, from the build-up of sexy selfies over the span of several months and the unexpected manifestation of them right fucking in front of him, taking him apart with steady, sure hands.

Cas pushes the elastic of Dean's shorts downward, and then his own until their cocks are sliding against each other. He takes them both in his hand and Dean stutters his hips into it, threads his hands in Cas' hair and breathes ragged against his neck. He feels a tightness at his spine and fucks into Cas' fist harder, erratic thrusts and desperate, cracked moans. Finally, he comes with a cry, pressing his head against the tree, shuddering into Cas' fist until Cas is coming too, breath in his throat and spilling all over them, grinding their hips together desperately until he slows and lets go.

He presses his forehead against Dean's and closes his eyes, panting while clutching onto Dean's wrist with his other hand. He threads their fingers together and pulls Dean's hand up to his lips to kiss and hold there, like he appreciates the words Dean has texted him as much as Dean appreciates Cas' words too. It's strange and tender and makes something in Dean's heart ache in a way he's never felt before.

Dean feels a smile spread across Cas' lips, and he looks up at Dean, looking beautifully blissed-out, pupils wide and wild, face flushed and a hickey blossoming on the nape of his neck because apparently Dean is a teenager and can't fucking control himself.

Cas huffs a laugh and, with that rough voice that makes Dean's dick twitch with the fleeting desire to go one more round, says, "It's good to meet you, Dean."

And for some reason, that's the funniest thing Dean has ever fucking heard. He cracks up and pulls Cas in for another kiss, this time sweet and chaste and expressing all these emotions that he sucks at showing otherwise, but Cas gets it, because Cas gets _him_ , and that's an amazing feeling.

Dean breaks away, looking around at their surroundings. "I guess we gotta keep running."

Cas shrugs, pulling a towel out of his back pocket and cleaning them up, situating Dean's dick back in his shorts and pulling them up on his waist, then his own too. "I'm not in a hurry."

Dean smiles and replies, "Neither am I."

***

Cas, the saint he is, runs the entire marathon at Dean's side even though Dean _knows_ he can run faster. Sam darts ahead as he promised he would, and Dean doesn't see him again until the race is over. Cas paces Dean, giving him encouraging words now and again, checking on him, pushing him forward when Dean wants to quit at mile two, and then again at ten, and then again at fifteen, but by twenty-one, Dean is delirious with exhaustion.

He wants to do this though, because he said he would, and Winchesters don't quit when the going gets tough. He has Cas by his side reminding him to pace himself and breathe evenly and let the world go while he focuses on his breath. It's grounding and it's the only way Dean finishes the race at all.

As promised, after they're back at Sam's house, showered up and stomachs full of barbecue that Jess fixed for them, Cas pounds Dean into the mattress as his reward for getting to twenty-six-point-two miles, and makes him come without touching him while Dean cries out his name.

Afterward, Cas holds him and presses kisses to his shoulders, rubs his sore muscles and asks, "You want to see what fifty miles gets you?"


End file.
